


Ritual Bonding

by thescyfychannel



Category: Homestuck
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Broodfester Tongues, F/F, Horrorterror Language, Oral Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-14
Updated: 2019-08-14
Packaged: 2020-08-23 14:15:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20244193
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thescyfychannel/pseuds/thescyfychannel
Summary: You can count on one hand the list of topics you usually get to talk about on blind dates, and none of them haveeverbeen this interesting.





	Ritual Bonding

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Esoterotica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esoterotica/gifts).

> "There's so much bonding to do over horrorterrors when you find out your date speaks the broodfester tongues."
> 
> Ain't that the truth.

You were never usually one for blind dates, but Jade was your absolute best friend, and she'd promised you that Roxy's sister would be exactly your type...which was the exact kind of sentiment that would usually send you running for the hills. Your reasons for not taking to your feet and fleeing were twofold: For one, Jade _was_ your best friend, and you really didn't want to let her down.

And, uh, for two? You'd done just the _teensiest _bit of Facebook stalking and _damn_ was this Rose Lalonde hot.

She had a whole gothic vibe going that made you wonder if she'd ever be down to try out a cosplay, but in a way that didn't feel overdone or weird. Little things. Total witch aesthetic, and hey, you could roll with that! You are the best at swimming with the current, it is you.

(also, you ignore the teensy little shiver that reminds you about rip currents and rogue waves. you can learn to handle the ocean; you can learn to handle Rose Lalonde)

But, well. It's a few minutes into the date and you're absolutely failing to see what either of you have in common, other than flirting less than subtly with one another. Sure, you might be more than a little relieved that she finds you _that_ attractive, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't want to put in the effort to make this a more-than-one-night stand. For Jade's sake, if not yours.

Okay, also kind of for yours. She's _gorgeous_.

"—and really, my study of the tongues got its start in high school," she says, and you swear internally. Must've tuned out or something.

Instead of scrambling, you go for honesty. It's worked very well for you in the past, and you have a feeling it will continue to do so here. "Sorry, I got distracted staring at you, and also probably overthinking things! Do you mind reeling the thread of your story back a bit and restarting?"

That smile, on those pitch-painted lips? It _does_ things to you, and you find yourself sitting up a little bit straighter in your chair. "Not at all. Feferi."

Fuck. Fuck! Okay, you are _so_ definitely taking her home. Unless she takes you home. You _desperately_ need to hear all the ways she has of saying your name. "Uh—"

"I'm interested in some of the literature about the Lords of the Outer Ring. Since I was young, actually—the broodfester tongues have always been of interest to me, but I've since strayed from the...alleged origins of the topic and genre, and really, my true study of the tongues began in high school," she says, still smiling, and you hope your wide-eyed delight isn't too obvious, "when my brother needed something suitably insanity-creating for one of his projects. Perhaps you've heard of them? He's studying film, actually."

"Heard people bitch about his weird meta art, yes, but did you mention the broodfester tongues?" Oh, good, great, you're actually _bouncing_ in your seat. Dammit, Feferi. Way to play it cool! "Because if so, please, let's talk more about that!"

The way her lips curl up is entirely different than the first smile she gave you, but just as interesting. "It's so rare to find someone more interested in one of my favorite topics than Dave's art that I find myself at a loss. Where would you like to begin?"

"Ragging on the lack of taste in this college?" That _almost_ gets you a laugh, and you flash her a brilliant grin. "I picked up an interest when I was little—or I guess, my mother got my sister and I into it? She was a woman of...varied, and unusual tastes. Big fan of Lovecraft." The face you pull is mirrored by Rose, and you have to grin.

"I take it you haven't had much opportunity to explore the language outside of her influence, then?"

There's something in the tone of her voice that has you wondering exactly what she means. Of course you'd given attention to the language on your own, but the way Rose says it—the look in her eyes—

Oh. _Oh._ "I admit to still being a student of the ways the horrorterrors speak, yes," you say, and you wonder if your eyes are sparkling as much as hers—she seems intrigued by this dance, as much as you are—and if her interest in the subject is purely _academic_, or something else entirely. "Is there something you think I should study further?"

"Oh, I'm sure you know more than you think you do," Rose says, and her eyes drag from the twist of braids in your hair to the strappy little heels you'd kicked off and left on the ground. "But perhaps there's something else I could show you..."

You can't get that bill paid fast enough, and, well—turns out, she's the one who's taking _you_ home.

* * *

Rose's room is similar to her look, hung with sheer, gauzy draperies, decorated in purple and black, and so refined that it almost sets your teeth on edge. It's like this: There's just something about Rose's elegance that makes you want to dig your nails into it and _tear_, and from the look she wears as she watches you explore the room, you think she might know. "So," she says, waving a hand through the air. "Ready to begin?"

You flop down onto the bed, staring at her. "You still haven't said _exactly_ what we're doing, here, you know."

"I personally plan on having fun, but you—well, I plan on making certain that you learn a few...alternative uses for the skills we share."

"Speaking the broodfester tongues?"

"Precisely."

The sensible thing to do here would be asking her to elaborate. Clarification is obviously _warranted_, given how cryptic she's being, and you wouldn't mind having a little more background on the topic before you get started.

But, uh, well.

Rose Lalonde pulls off her shirt, and you can't seem to focus on anything but that for a few minutes. More than. You kind of lose track of the time for a bit, right there.

"Uh," you say, as eloquent as can be. "Wow."

"Glad you're enjoying the view," she says, working on her skirt. "But you're not going to leave me alone like this, are you?"

"Uh—nope, definitely not." Oh, fuck, Rose is not even wearing a bra. Off goes your shirt, and you ditch the tight jeans about twice as fast as you'd gotten them on. "So what exactly does this have to do with horrorterror speech again?"

"Oh, darling, I am going to _enjoy_ showing you." 

(there's that little shiver again, that one that grabs you by the spine and tells you _the lady's a danger_ and once again, you ignore it)

Rose's idea of showing you involves being sprawled out on the bed together with her head between your legs and her mouth on your thighs. Any attempt to raise further questions is met with one of several things—a bite to the soft skin there, a tongue over the bites she's left, sucking a mark into you—and absolutely no reply. Patience has never been one of your virtues, and what small fragment you have left is starting to wear very, _very_ thin.

And then her mouth lands on your clit and you understand absolutely _everything_.

* * *

The broodfester tongues, it seems, are an _excellent_ way to give oral. Rose traces out summonings and rituals over your clit, delves into you prayers and chants that layer themselves one over the other and you, in your fevered-dizzy-almost-sane-state imagine that you can read _exactly_ what she's writing onto your body. "Rose," you gasp out, as she spells down a particularly insistent hymn of praise, your hips bucking up into her mouth and your hands tangling into her hair. "Rose, _please_, I'm—oh, _fuck_—"

Rose does not "please"; Rose does not care—Rose makes you come _mercilessly_, until you're almost sobbing and gasping with the effort. And then, when Rose is done, she sits up and wipes her lips off with a little black handkerchief. Your reeling mind notes that it has delicate lace around the edges, and brilliant purple floral embroidery.

"Now," she tells you, and you think for a moment that maybe there's an echo to her voice? Or there's a ringing in your ears? "How would you like to do that to me at the same time?"

Oh, _fuck_. Yes. Yes, you would like that, and you're reasonably sure you manage to convey as much, because Rose swings her thighs up over your face and curves her back just so, and you're really getting the sixty-nine thing way better than you ever had before. "Any particular section of lore you'd like me to write out?"

"Whatever takes your fancy," Rose says, and presses another kiss to your bruised and bitten thighs, prelude to the next set of words she begins tracing out.

As for you, well—it's sensibility itself to haul her hips down low enough that you can work her open, write out the grimdark scriptures over the clit and on the inside of her slit, praise and longing and songs you had never really bothered to consider beyond the basic academic level (you'd never needed to, really). Your focus narrows to her, Rose Lalonde, and hangs there.

(dimly, you are aware that the room has grown colder, that the quality of the light you can see has changed, that shadows seem to rise and fall in a dance, but your awareness is still on her, her, her)

Another pass of your tongue is countered by hers, each of you tracing out single syllables and turning harsh language delicate in its recreation—it is, you realize, a kind of dance you've never tried to do before, and she almost laughs against you at the exact moment you _get_ it—and your hands dig a little into her hips as you _feel_ her get into it, rocking down against your mouth, and—

The two of you climax at the same time, improbable as it might seem, and the darkness _rushes_ around you, cold enough to make you groan. "Gods dammit, Rose," you mumble, just as soon as she's rolled off of you to lie at your side, laughing. "If you want to _actually_ do a summoning or something, warn me next time. I'm _not_ ending up with some random—"

"Oh, shut it," she says, and her laughter is still beautiful, and her eyes are still bright, and even after all of that there is something so sweetly _human_ about her—you'd never guess that grimdark ran through her veins, almost as strongly as it did through yours. "It's not like _you_ told me what you were either."

"I'll lead with that," you say, and flash her a grin as you ease the darkness back—without help from your new friend, who, you suspect, probably _wants_ to play with it more—before propping yourself up on your elbows. "But then again, you really should've guessed."

She scoffs, waving a hand again. "And what was your excuse?"

"You're hot, and I'm _very_ easily distracted." Her expression says she doesn't believe you; you tackle her into a kiss to prove exactly your point, and, well.

You've got a little more bonding to do, and a best friend to thank. But that's later, though, much, _much_ later—right now, you have Rose.

Or she has you.

You'll have to sort that one out eventually.


End file.
